


The Red Zone

by asiriuswriter



Category: FOX NFL Sunday RPF, Madden NFL (Video Games), NFL Rush Zone, New England Patriots - Fandom, Patriots - Fandom
Genre: M/M, New England Patriots, Pats nation, bredelman - Freeform, patriots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-03-19 15:33:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13707378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asiriuswriter/pseuds/asiriuswriter
Summary: Julian Edelman is coming off an injury reserved season with a vengeance. He trains big, goes hard, and does anything that is asked of him. There are things he knows, and things he knows well. With football being his main focus, Julian never quite realized the drive behind his love for the Patriots. But on the off season, he spends time training harder than ever before with the legendary quarterback that lead the Patriots to five Super Bowl titles, and his eagerness to please Tom doesn't go unnoticed.But they have a history that his mind refuses to let him forget. Julian knows that things are going to be different; they always are when returning from an injury. He just doesn't know how different.





	1. Chapter 1

Gravity pulled heavily behind his navel, like his stomach might drop right out of his body and fall grotesquely against the floor at his feet. Julian Edelman's ocean blue gaze focused on lush landscape as the plane broke the clouds on its descent towards the ground. There was a brief pause, a hiccup in his body as it quickly adjusted to the sensation, and then he relaxed. He sat back, leaned against the headrest, and closed his eyes. The plane jerked a moment later with the sound of wheels scraping against the runway.

It'd been a cold winter in Boston but he'd been hellbent on staying through the entire season.

Injuries _always_ resulted in a lonely life away from the team. No one knew what to say to the dude who wouldn't be there full time until the following year, but the least he could do was stick around and train in ways his body wouldn't let him. He attended meetings, sat in on practices, and studied harder than he'd studied in his entire football career.

Julian poured over thick playbooks, routinely studied rules both old and new, and mesmerized the concepts behind every, single play for every, single position on the field. He had learned quickly that in Patriots Nation, it was just as important to be mentally prepared as it was to exercise, to run plays, and to adjust his body for any play route Bill and Tom decided was best fit. Half of deciding what to do came with mental understanding of the game.

Now, as he debarked the plane in California, Julian was hit with familiar warmth that came from growing up here and splitting his time, particularly in the off season, between the East and West coasts.

Julian called an Uber as he waited for baggage, and when he exited the terminal the driver was already there.

_Whatever your job is, do it well._

"Yo man," Jules slid his luggage into the seat beside him and recited the address to his parents' place. 

"Weather's been good out here, huh?" Jules asked conversationally. The driver, a young, Hispanic man eyed him in the rear view. They rolled out of the airport and were on the massive, six-lane highway in just seconds.

"Yeah. Not bad," the driver replied. "Where did you come from?"

"Boston," Julian said. He slipped out of the leather jacket he'd been wearing and threw it over his suitcase. "It's been on and off there. One day's brutal, next it's like Spring. Guess that's New England for ya."

The driver nodded. "So I've heard. Never been myself."

"You a football fan?" Julian asked; that was his _thing._ Whenever he'd been faced with someone new, someone he'd likely never see again, he talked sports. It was fun to see what people knew about football, which teams they preferred, and mostly, what they thought about the New England Patriots. It hadn't _always_ been this way, especially early in Julian's NFL career, but a majority of the country had pretty strong opinions on the Pats. Winning teams earned few friends. Fortunately, he wasn't usually recognized, especially out here, in California where the Patriots were not favored.

"Yeah, a bit. Prefer soccer."

"Ah, yeah. Soccer's fun. Big in Spanish-speaking countries, yeah?"

"Yeah. Family's from Colombia, so."

"Ah, sweet. Yeah, I'm a big football fan. Never really played much soccer, but those games get rowdy, man!"

"Yeah, they do. What teams do you like, for football?"

Julian's gazed trailed from the blur of cars and billboards zooming by his vision to the driver's eyes in the rear view. "49ers, of course. Grew up near San Fran. Lately, a Pats fan, though."

"They're good. Too bad about the Super Bowl."

Julian couldn't tell if the guy was serious or just hoping for a big tip. "Yeah. Too bad."

They pulled up to Julian's parents fifteen minutes later and he was greeted with hugs and kisses. Julian slipped the driver an extra fifteen and carried his bag inside. He wouldn't stay here long, but his California car was parked in his parents driveway and he was sure they'd kill him if he didn't immediately visit, especially his mom.

That afternoon, Frank Edelman ran out for some authentic MexiCali burritos and tacos and Julian let himself indulge. Chipotle had been one of his favorites in Boston, but it didn't compare to _this,_ home comfort food.

"What are your plans for the day?" his mom asked as they sat around the table on the porch in the backyard. Julian shrugged.

"Settle in. Wait for Tom, probably."

"That's all you ever do, isn't it?"

"Guy's kind of unpredictable. His schedule, you know? I have to be available. _Have_ to be."

Julian had initially signed with the Patriots under a weak contract hugely because of Tom Brady and he stuck with that mentality. So long as Tom was playing, Julian would be there for him; for practice, for pliability training, for _anything._ It was why he'd even come out to California at all, but he wasn't about to tell mom and pops that.

Jules licked his fingers clean of guacamole and salsa before he got up, stretched, and cleaned up after himself. Back in the house, he plopped on the couch, elevating the leg he'd injured half a year prior. It'd been a _long_ season without being able to actively participate on the field, but it was over now and he couldn't wait to get things in gear for the new season.

He was _restless._ Jules threw a small, plush football in the air and caught it a few times. He considered popping in a video game to kill some time, but Frank was watching.

"You shouldn't be sitting around waiting. Get the hell outside and throw the ball, for Christ's sake."

Julian cocked his brows and concealed a smirk. Even now that he'd made it to the NFL with a solid contract and enough money to live off of for the rest of his life, his dad was on his case to _train harder._

But, Julian knew, he was right. Jules made sure his phone was in his pocket and loud enough to hear before he dragged some cones, targets, and footballs around back from inside the garage. 

It was time to get back in the game.


	2. Chapter 2

The call from Tom didn't come that day.

The quarter back knew Julian was in town, Julian had made sure of that, but he hadn't  _fucking_ called him, and Julian had no idea how to feel about that. Since Welker had been out, he had gotten _used_ to being Tom Brady's go-to. He'd purposely and repeatedly made himself available and for the past few years, he'd get calls almost every day of the off season from Tom, asking him to toss the ball around and meet him for drills at the gym (it was _so much more_ than a regular gym) they both had memberships to.

Julian made it a priority to never say no, _no matter what._

Sometimes, he'd be in the middle of a goddamn shower, hair soaked with expensive product when the call would come in and Jules would barely spend time rinsing himself off before darting out the front door, tugging his jersey shorts up just in time to slide into the driver's seat. Other times, Julian would be elbows-deep in grease at the old man's auto shop, helping with some project or another when his phone would ring and he'd wipe his hands on his clothes to answer, only to dart off with those furiously fast feet of his to meet Tom.

God, he was so _eager_ to please the old man, and sometimes it just pissed him off real good. He'd been _so close_ to leaving the team back in 2013, and sometimes, Julian wished he had just so Tom would know what he was missing now. He knew Tom spent hours upon _hours_ staring at his computer, watching and re-watching plays most guys believed insignificant.

Jules knew that Tom wasn't like most guys, and that Tom was right more often than not, but hell, he still pissed him off. And, truthfully, no matter how tough it was to be a Patriot living in the shadow of some of the best wide receivers the industry had ever seen, he would never change his decision to stick with  _his_ team.

The call didn't come the following day, either.

And Julian Edelman was goddamn frustrated. Two days wasted on this road to recovery, on his path towards starting in another season with the Patriots. Every second that he didn't train his hardest, he knew there was someone else out there chasing after his spot on the team. The injury was a major setback, but at least he was on contract and guaranteed a return. Next time, he might not _be_ so lucky. Tom seemed to take that for granted, for fuck's sake. His position was _his_ until Tom _decided_ he was done.

Julian was soon reaching his tenth year with the Pats, for Christ's sake. Brady might have considered himself the goddamn bionic man with plans to play until he broke a hip, but Jules knew the position he'd acquired with the team would make it impossible to play for that long, no matter how hard he trained and no matter what kinds of foods he shoved in his mouth. He'd suffered hand injuries, back injuries, shoulder injuries, arm injuries, ankle injuries, foot injuries, and was now barely recovered from a leg injury. It was only a matter of time before one of those injuries ended his career.

Time was chasing him faster than he liked to admit; but Julian still had a lot of football left in him, so long as he had the opportunity to practice.

At the tail end of his third day in California, and still with no word from Brady, Julian Edelman was feeling undoubtedly _pissed_.

Jules held his phone above his face while laying out in bed at the condo he'd been staying in, eyes on the time. Just after nine, local. He had a decision to make. Piss off Brady by calling him _now_ and letting his frustrations tear through the receiver, or wait until the morning when he had a clear head. Either way, he knew he was going to yell at Tom and Tom was going to yell at him. His thumb hovered over the call button and he _almost_ did it, almost woke the old bastard up from his slumber to bitch him out, but he didn't. Maybe a part of him had grown up this past year.

Julian turned off his phone and tossed it onto the lounge chair beside his bed. He picked up the remote for the video game he'd been playing, adjusted his headset, and lost track of time in the digital world.

* * *

Ear-splitting hammering jolted him from a deep sleep. Julian's eyes bulged open to absorb the bright, California sun shining through his windows. His headset was still on, the control for his video game on his stomach. Fucking construction.

"Shit."

Julian blinked tired eyes and found the time on the neon-red numbers of his alarm clock on the nightstand.

10:21.

"Shit."

He never slept this late! Julian shoved the headset and controller to the side, sat up, and grabbed his phone. As it loaded, he took a quick piss and brushed his teeth.

A few buzzes vibrated against the linoleum counter in the bathroom as water swished around in his mouth. He spit it out into the sink.

" _Shit_."

Julian dialed in his pass code and waited as it revealed two missed calls, one voicemail, and two texts.

Voicemail first.

 **TOM BRADY, 7:19AM-  
** "Hey babe. It's Tom. Just wanted to see if you want to throw some balls around, get some practice in. I'll be at the gym all morning. Hope to see you. Better not be sleeping in, you slacker."

"Shit!"

Jules saw that both missed calls were from Brady; the first in which he'd left the voicemail, the second from an hour ago.

Now, his texts.

 **TOM BRADY [10:01AM]:** Fuck are you, man?

And.

 **DANNY AMENDOLA [10:12AM]:** With Brady. You good? He's ticked off you're ignoring him.

_"Shit!"_

Julian swapped the previous day's jeans that he'd slept in for a pair of jersey shorts, grabbed his gear and keys, and was out the door on his way to the gym in an instant. He texted Danny in the car.

 **Julian [10:32AM]:** Still there? OMW.

Julian threw the phone on the seat next to him and sped down the road, pissed off with himself.

Nothing was guaranteed. Julian knew he needed to step it up, and quick.


	3. Chapter 3

The drive to the gym was smooth. Dodging potholes was not the problem in California that it was in Boston and he could get there blindfolded, relying only on muscle memory for each turn of the steering wheel.

It was going to be a difficult season. Returning after injury was always tough, and this wasn't a good start.

It almost compared to the 2014 off season; but that was a different. He'd been different.

If history repeated itself, they'd be on their way to Super Bowl LIII with a tight win.

* * *

 

The night of Super Bowl XLIX came rushing back out of nowhere; like a miss-thrown ball picked between his awaiting hands. It'd been his second Super Bowl, but his first resulting in a win and the swell of emotions felt during the hours after the game had been incomparable. The surge of media interviews overshadowed the need for a locker room team party, and when Julian had finally taken off his gear and packed up, it'd just been a few of them left, straggling behind the others.

It'd been an emotional moment. That year had been particularly difficult and emotionally taxing, but there he was; just a kid from California sitting in a championship locker room with a Super Bowl win under his belt. It was indescribable.

The party itself was a blur of drinks and laughter thanks to Gronk being Gronk; the tight end celebrated with dancing that rivaled stars in the art and he hadn't even gotten to play in the game thanks to an injury. Julian wondered if Gronk would have a chance to celebrate another win, this time with his two feet on the field making plays. The night was crazy and Julian had been surrounded by boys from all different backgrounds and upbringings, celebrating as brothers. They'd been on this road together, built a trust and companionship on the field that translated to deep relationships off the field.

There was just one teammate missing.

Though it'd been pure, blissful elation, Julian found himself staggering through a wide, hotel corridor in Phoenix, Arizona.

He'd knocked on Tom's door with a heavy hand, and surprisingly, despite the hour, Tom was awake. This hadn't been his first Super Bowl win, but it'd been ten years since he'd earned his last ring. He should have been partying with the rest of them. It was _Tom_ that lead them to victory and anyone who said otherwise would be faced with a fight from Julian Edelman.

"What are you doing here, Jules?"

"Why aren't you partying?" Julian swayed in the doorway just slightly, his eyes heavily hooded from drink. He had been unable to stop himself from thinking _go see Tom. Go see Tom. Go see Tom._ The entire night of liquor and dancing had been consumed with bodily exhaustion after a physical game, but he just kept going, until, apparently, his feet had carried him from the rager to Tom's luxury hotel room. Tom was 38 at that point and Julian was nine years his junior; but he knew Tom had never been much into the party aspect of a win.

"I don't know."

Julian felt small beneath Tom's gaze in that moment. A brief flashback burst through his thoughts - _"Do you realize you caught the game winning touch down in the Super Bowl?" -_ strong arms embraced him and that huge, throwers hand dug into the back of Julian's sweaty head, carding through dripping strands of thick hair. He squinted, but didn't look away. Even drunk, he would rise to this silent challenge.

 _No one_ had known how hard that year had been for him, but Tom, Tom, he saw glimpses. He knew enough.

Finally, the quarterback extended a hand and rested it against Julian's shoulder. He gave in immediately. Julian's body seemed to deflate as he took a step forward against Tom Brady and the door to his hotel room closed behind them.

* * *

 

Julian parked by the curb in front of the gym but he didn't rush inside as he pushed away thoughts of previous years. He was eager, but he wasn't desperate. There was a game of alpha male here, and he wasn't going to show weaknesses. With his football gear slung over a shoulder and a half eaten banana in one hand, he pushed open the heavy, gym door. For just a moment, his eyes were blinded as they adjusted from the bright lights outside to the relatively dim lighting inside. Then, he saw them.

It was just Dola, Tom, and Alex Guerrero. They paused for the slightest second as Julian entered before getting back to what they'd been doing. It was only Tom who didn't go back to throwing the football once the door closed and Julian stepped inside, shoving the rest of the banana in his mouth before tossing the peel in the garbage. He knew he had to gear up, but Tom was staring at him and taking slow, careful steps his way.

"You gonna come at eleven, don't even bother showing."

"Not like you fuckin' warned me you'd be practicing today."

"You gotta be prepared every day, Jules, that's how it goes. You _know_ that--"

"--Oh, now I'm s'posed to just wait around for what's what? Waited all fuckin' week--"

"--That's exactly what you're _supposed_ to do. It's the fucking NFL, Julian, not Pop Warner."

"Fuck off, man. I'm here now."

"You shouldn't be."

"What, you want me to go?"

"Yeah, man. Show up on time or don't show up at all."

"Maybe I won't."

"Your fucking call."

"My fucking life."

Julian was chomping at the bit, ready to _go._ He had to stop himself from taking a swing. They were just chewing each other out, he knew that, but that didn't suppress his anger.

Julian kicked the door on the way out before letting it slam behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

He would be _damned_ if he allowed an entire day to go to waste.

Julian would _own_ the fact that he'd slept in. There was nothing that pissed him off more than a lazy, worthless day. Rising with the sun had been a rule he'd followed since his college days where practice was priority. So, really, it came as no surprise how _agitated_ he felt as his skin crawled and blood boiled and rushed through his body, thrumming in his ears and pounding against his throat. At least he knew he had no one to blame but himself.

Even so.

Tom's anger shot spikes of shattered glass across Julian's tight body. He couldn't tell if he was more annoyed with Tom's reaction or his own fuck up; but Julian sure knew how to talk himself up. Three days he'd waited for a goddamn call from the quarterback and three days he'd been disappointed. It was not his _fault_ that Tom decided he _needed_ him on the forth day and it was not his _intention_ to oversleep.

Sometimes, though, intention didn't matter.

Tom had been a dick, kicking him out like that; but maybe Julian had just been a bitch listening to him. He paid membership fees just as Tom did, and yet the quarterback dictated his actions. He had half a mind to turn his car around right then to get his workout in, but he knew he wasn't going to do that. Tom had told him _no,_ and whether or not he liked it, Julian was going to fucking listen.

Julian stepped down on the accelerator as the on-ramp to the highway straightened and bled into six lanes of traffic. He flipped on his blinker, threw a glance into the rear view mirrors, and sent his car to the far left lane with just a subtle turn of the steering wheel. The speed of the car climbed and Julian's grip tightened.

* * *

 

That night, after Super Bowl XLIX, things had changed; and for two, solid years, Julian's life as star wide receiver to the greatest quarterback of all time were _everything_. He'd been gunned for a third year riding that blissful high, but things had been cut short so quickly in that goddamn preseason game, it was like a sucker punch to the gut that he _still_ struggled to recover from. It was like he'd been gasping for air for an entire season; but now that was _over_ and he'd been _expecting_ it to go back to the way it had been. Maybe he'd been expecting too much, or maybe he just wasn't fucking _ready_ for things to go back to the way they were. The loneliness of the past seven months still clawed at his insides and he repeatedly had to swallow it. _Be a man._ Get _over_ it.

The door in the hotel had closed behind him with a soft snap and then a click as Tom extended his arm to reach behind Julian, twisting the master lock into place. Tom's sapphire eyes traveled from the door just behind Julian's head to his own gaze and then darted, for the briefest of moments, to Julian's lips before catching his gaze once again. The whole exchange was a fraction of a second, but he remembered each moment like a snapshot.

He'd drank too much. Gronk bought two rounds for everyone in the bar and then Julian repaid the favor, and the rest was a quick succession of cocktail after cocktail, the colors and flavors mixing into a hazy memory of something that burned his throat. Just the thought of it had him swaying before Tom, but he swallowed down the sick feeling in his belly as Tom's long fingers wrapped around his bearded chin, inclining Julian's head to force their eyes to lock.

"What are you _doing,_ Jules?"

He remembered two things from that moment. Tom's breath smelled minty, like spearmint and baking soda, as though he'd just brushed his teeth. He also remembered realizing that he was close enough to the quarterback to be able to smell his breath. Julian's exhausted gaze had trailed over the strong lines of Tom's face, pausing to stare at the space between parted lips. His teeth were so _fucking_ white.

"You use some kind've-- like--- _formula_ on them?" Julian slurred, releasing a shuddering laugh. When he focused on Tom again, he realized he wasn't laughing and Julian stopped, forgetting what was so funny almost instantly. "Why didn't you come to the party?"

"Done enough partying. I ain't about that, man. You know that."

"But it's the _Super Bowl,_ Tom."

Tom's hand still cupped his jaw, his fingers buried into the wiry hair of his beard, but Julian didn't move.

"Why are you here, Jules?"

Why _was_ he there? His lips parted to answer, but he hadn't gotten a chance.

* * *

 

Julian's heartbeat jumped to his throat as the sound of sirens interrupted his thoughts and his eyes jerked from the road, to the rear view mirror where a police officer was behind him, lights circling from red to blue to red, and then to the speedometer.

"Shit," he murmured. He was pushing close to 100 and Julian immediately let up on the gas, allowing his car to come to a natural slow as he carefully pulled over, across five lanes, to the gutter. The cop pulled up behind him and kept his lights going as he got out of the car and sauntered to the passenger's side. Julian rolled the window down as he pulled his wallet out then opened the glove box for his registration and insurance.

"Going real fast, man," the cop said.

"Sorry, officer," Julian muttered. When he glanced over at him, he noticed he looked no older than twenty-five. A rookie, for sure. He'd removed his sunglasses and his dark eyes surveyed Julian and the expensive vehicle, and for a split second, Julian thought he might get lucky and have found himself a football fan. But those hopes were cut short as the cop held out a hand for the documentation.

"This'll take a few. Put your hazards on."

"Yes, sir," Julian said, exhaling the stress knots that bunched in his belly as he clicked on his flashing tail lights. The cop meandered away with that gait all cops seemed to inherit, his eyes glued to the paperwork as Julian watched him in the rear views.

This was just what he fucking _needed_ right now. With time to spare, he grabbed his phone that'd been tucked into the cup holder, noticing a text from Danny.

 **DANNY AMENDOLA [11:22AM]:** The hell was all that about man?  
**DANNY AMENDOLA [11:31AM]:** I'm wrapping up. Tom's being a dick. Where are you? Wanna meet?

Julian glanced in the mirror again and kept his phone low before tapping out a response.

 **JULIAN [11:40AM]:** Got fucking pulled over by a rookie cop. Was heading to the track near my condo to work out.  
**JULIAN [11:40AM]:** Where did you have in mind?

He placed the phone down and reached forward, twisting the dial on the radio to change stations until he found a familiar song- _Solitary Man_ by Neil Diamond. He'd been a _slight_ Diamond fan his whole life in the way that most suburban white kids were Diamond fans their whole lives, but when he moved to Boston and _Sweet Caroline_ was played _everywhere,_ he'd picked up an album and learned every goddamn lyric to every goddamn song.

Julian tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, singing along in his head.

 _Don't know that I will_  
_But until I can find me_  
_The girl who'll stay_  
_And won't play games behind me_  
_I'll be what I am_  
_A solitary man_  
_Solitary man_

The phone buzzed in the center console and Julian glanced down at it.

 **DANNY AMENDOLA [11:43AM]:** Careful man. Sucks to suck.  
**DANNY AMENDOLA [11:43AM]:** Alright. I'll just meet you at the track in a bit.

Julian replied with a thumbs up and threw the phone back down on the seat beside him, sighing. He was frustrated with  _everything_ and he just wanted to  _run,_ to catch balls, to go through every goddamn drill known in the NFL until he was drenched in sweat and his body so exhausted he would collapse.

The cop exited his vehicle, the movement catching Julian's eyes in the mirror, and he sat up straighter, trying to appear like a model citizen.

"You really Julian Edelman?"

"Really really."

"Awesome. Welcome home. Why don't you come play for the 49ers?" the cop had a lighter tone than he'd presented previously as a small, teasing smile lit up his eyes.

Julian smiled and released a forced laugh as he shrugged his shoulder. "Never know what the future holds, man."

His future was never with the 49ers, even if they were his home team, but if buttering this cop up meant he'd get away without the infraction on his record, so be it.

"That'd be awesome. You and Jimmy G could really tag team," the cop continued. "Anyway, nice to meet you, Julian. Just a warning for today, but slow down, man. Don't want your football career cut short."

"Yes, sir. Thanks a lot, man. And uh-- thank you for your services," Julian added, nodding with firm appreciation. The cop responded with his own nod before he handed Julian back his documents.

"Careful pulling out," he said before he turned around to head to his car.

Julian waited until the cop pulled out before he, too, carefully turned back into traffic, taking his sweet time as he headed towards the track.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun was brutal.

It was almost unbearable directly overhead as time approached noon, and his body, now accustomed to New England winters, had trouble adjusting. Beads of sweat formed along Julian's brow, a tribute to the released frustrations crawling beneath his skin.

It was what Frank Edelman had instilled in him and Tom Brady had reinforced.

Happy?  
 _Good, go celebrate by working drills._  
Pissed?  
 _Good, release it through working on speed.  
_ Frustrated?  
 _Good, take it out on the field._  
Upset?  
 _Good, go cheer up through running._

Whatever the fucking mood, it was best believed that Julian would be out there, channeling that energy into his passion. Anyone who did _anything_ less in whatever it was they loved was selling themselves short. 

Danny burst towards him, ready to make the block. Julian faked right then left before spinning and taking off left down the center.

"That's it, man! Let's fucking go!" he screamed after Julian who was dashing across the field.

When people looked at him, they didn't always assume he was an athlete. He had muscles, sure, but muscles meant little in terms of speed and agility. He was a white dude and white dude's weren't taken as seriously in sports, but he lived to break stereotypes. Julian's body was small compared to most NFL athletes, but he was quick. He was in the end zone in seconds, even with Danny on his tail. Their feet came to a slow up the middle and Julian turned to capture Danny's eyes and sweat-slicked face as his friend nodded in approval.

"Again." Julian set up for their fifth run of this play and Danny got into place. The other wide receiver was growing quickly exhausted; his own practice with Tom coupled with this second workout with Jules proved taxing on his body, but Julian was feeling it. They ran the play again, and again, and again, then switched roles. Jules had been able to stop Danny a couple times, but it wasn't good enough. After a while, they switched to single-man drills; running, high knees, toe touches, sprints, punting, then they moved to punt returns.

The whole time, Julian was focused; but there were flashes of distant memories clouding his brain.

What would Tom say now?

_Laser focus._

* * *

Tom's deft fingers traced the pout of Julian's lower lip. He almost jerked back, almost slugged the quarterback across his angular face. What was Tom playing at, anyway? He'd come here to check up on him, to make sure he wasn't letting life slip him by in favor of this obsession he had with playing for the long-term. There were times that Brady's love for ample sleep were beneficial, but they had just won the fucking Super Bowl and Jules had learned in his time with in the NFL, nothing was a guarantee. Next year, there would be new guys, guys lost, and no fucking way to be certain they'd get this close again. 

He had to _enjoy_ it.

But if Julian were honest with himself, there had been other reasons he had found himself venturing away from the party to seek Tom Brady, even if those reasons were currently clouded with liquor-coated thoughts.

"What are you _doing_ here, Jules?"

How many times was he going to ask him that before Julian gave him an answer he believed? Julian's head swayed, but years of learning to control a football meant his movement was nothing to the quarterback's expert hands. Tom held him steady, his soft, baby blue's somehow sad in this lighting.

"I _told_ you, you're not at the party, man. Why aren't you at the party?"

It was so sudden that Tom jerked his head forward, tugging his neck so roughly he would have stumbled if not for Brady's solid body keeping him there, pinned between him and the door; almost as if this was what he _wanted._

"No, that's not it. C'mon, Jules. We both know that's not fucking it."

What did he want from him? Julian couldn't form words on his leaden tongue. As talkative as he could be at the best of times was how quiet he was now. Maybe he just couldn't bring himself to say the words.

Julian couldn't bear looking at him. Hooded eyes stared past Tom, right through him as if he weren't even there. His lips were parted and his cheeks flushed beneath his wiry beard, and for a moment, Julian became nothing but aware of his own mortality. The heart that beat in his chest fluttered so fast and so hard it acted as a _reminder_ that time was not a given and soon, soon he'd be a Free Agent up for grabs. Maybe he'd suffer a career ending injury. Maybe this was the only time he'd ever have a Super Bowl win. Maybe this was the only time he'd have time alone with Tom like this.

As though he could read his thoughts, Tom's hand shifted beneath his chin and inclined his head once again. Their bodies were almost touching now, with less than an inch of space between them, but it was this act of force that made Julian's eyes meet Tom's.

"What're _you_ doin'--? Are you gonna--?"

He was goddamn sloppy. It'd be easy enough to blame liquor, but flushed cheeks meant he was too aware for that to be the case. He acted quickly, maybe too quickly, in attempt to surprise and just _do_ without thought. Their teeth crashed together and----"Fuck," Julian grumbled, voice low and gravelly, but Tom hadn't budged.----A little too much, too quickly.---

\--Julian's skin rippled with gooseflesh under _heatrushheatwarmcoolairheat_. The gap between them had closed so instantaneously he hadn't processed what happened. 

There would come a time when knowledge of this was too great to hold back; but right now, the obvious thing, _this_ thing, the hunger behind Tom's blue eyes consumed him almost angrily. Flat hands rose and wiggled their way between them, towards Tom's solid, muscular chest. He hadn't even realized that their lips were touching again, that Tom was kissing him and he was kissing Tom, and he hadn't known who was the one to initiate it; but all at once his hands came to a stop and shoved. Tom stumbled then stepped back, his hands still hovering by his sides as though he was still holding Julian. 

They stared at each other, lips parted and swollen, chests heaving.

* * *

"What the hell was that?" 

Danny's voice collided with his conscious and Julian realized he'd dropped an easy catch.

"Fuck!" he picked up the ball and flung it across the field into Danny's awaiting arms. Danny's expression barely shifted, but it was there. A question, a curiosity. There was something going on, but he didn't want to ask. No one asked those kinds of questions.

Julian had to learn how to fucking _compartmentalize._ How the _hell_ did Tom do it so well?

His shirt was soaked with sweat and Danny appeared paler than usual, but he wasn't ready to quit.

"Throw it again. Deeper."

Danny did as he was told and Julian's feet and legs relied on muscle memory. He was bordering on dehydrated, starving, his body decomposing from lack of nutrition and rest, but he was on the move. The ball caught a perfect arc, spinning a little high, but Jules was ready. He sprinted, calculating where his feet needed to be to make the catch, and in the milliseconds it took for the ball to spiral towards the ground, Julian leapt up with force. Hands covered in red gloves felt the familiar weight of the ball as fingers wrapped around it, securing it before he came down, landing softly and then taking off. In his mind, a corner back was hot on his heels and Julian even sidestepped a few cones before going in for the score.

He purposely dropped the ball in the end zone and then fell to his knees, spent.

 


	6. Chapter 6

"Let's call it quits, man!" Danny came jogging up to his side from the other end of the field. His cleats were caked with grass and dirt and he looked on the verge of collapse as sweat trickled over his forehead, rounding the apples of his cheeks, and dripped off his chin, soaking his already sweat-stained shirt. Julian squinted up at him, his chest heaving, and nodded.

He'd forgotten, until that moment, that all he'd eaten was a single banana and his body begged for sustenance. He felt shaky and nauseous from pushing himself, his stomach curling in uncomfortable knots. Julian nodded then eased himself to his feet with little effort, but an ache in his bones made him sway just slightly.

Danny patted him on the shoulder then fixed him with a hard, studying gaze. There was something in those eyes of his, and Julian didn't like what he knew he was presenting. He forced his own expression to relax.

Julian used the bottom of his own shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead, exposing solid abs that somehow hadn't diminished in the six months he'd been out as they walked in tandem to the sidelines. His stomach felt so hollow he feared throwing up would completely empty him, and Jules had to ball his hands into fists to ground himself. A dull pain throbbed behind his eyes and his saliva turned to sawdust; his mouth dry and throat raw. He needed to coat it with cool liquid, to gulp water until his belly bloated and sloshed. Somehow, though he'd been running himself dry just moments before, he'd hit a wall that came only when he gave himself permission to quit. It was almost impossible to lift one foot in front of the other, and Danny appeared to share that sentiment as he meandered slowly beside Julian. They wore matching red faces, but Julian had always been more of a sweater; his cotton tee a darker shade of blue than when he'd put it on that morning. 

He had no idea how long they'd been out there, but judging by the sun's position in the sky, it was well after noon.

They paused to chug much needed water at the side of the field. He'd brought an entire gallon that he'd been sipping throughout their workout, and it was quickly emptied as they stood there. Still, he thirsted for more. Julian felt Danny's eyes on him the whole while they drank and paused only to catch their breaths before drinking again. When he finally found it in him to meet the other's gaze, he was squinting through dripping sweat that clung to his eyelashes, stinging his eyes with salt. The bright sun burned above, beating against the tops of their heads and kissing their skin. Danny was red from their workout, but it looked as though a hint of a sunburn had blossomed over his nose. In this lighting, Julian could see the light freckles on Danny's tan skin and there was just a moment that he felt a need to reach out and trace them.

That moment passed quickly.

"Everything good, man?" Danny breathed, wiping water away from his lips with the back of his hand. Julian nodded, his brows furrowing in a tight knit.

"Yeah, man. Everything's good. Exhausted," he muttered. He licked his glistening lips, and all he could taste was salt, like he'd emerged from the water at the beach. "Brady being a bitch, eh?"

Danny shrugged loosely. "Yeah, you know how that goes."

"Yeah, yeah, I do."

"You going home?"

Julian nodded. He needed a shower and food. "You?"

"Yeah. Practice tomorrow?"

"Sure. I'll be ready early," Julian promised.

"I know you will."

* * *

 

He _had_ to stop thinking about Tom.

Hot water drenched his skin red and steam enveloped him in a hug. He was still sweating and with this kind of heat, he wasn't going to stop. Sweating beneath a stream of water always felt strange, but this felt somehow necessary, like the hot water was disinfecting him from sinful thoughts and stifling anger.

Suds rolled off his rounded shoulders, down the expanse of his back, and hugged the curve of his butt. He stood, facing the stream, but couldn't bring himself to let it hit his face. Instead, he cooled the water so that it was just warm instead of hot and dipped his whole body beneath it once again. It felt good against his scalp, massaging between thick strands of hair. Julian ran his hands over his face and rubbed at his eyes as he stepped away, then turned the dial, switching off the water. When he stepped out, he hugged a fresh, white towel around his dripping body, absorbing droplets rolling over his stomach and chest and then his face.

Steam clouded the mirrors and Julian's attention went to his phone. The goddamn advice was addictive. Most people couldn't go without checking it after bathing, and he was no different. There was one text that caught his immediate attention.

 **TOM BRADY [4:10PM]:** What are you up to?

Jules inhaled a deep breath and held it into his lungs, studying the letters on the glowing screen. It turned milky as steam clung to the glossy surface and he wiped it on his towel, exhaling.

After everything they had been through, would they survive the coming season?

It was hard not to think of the day that everything changed.

Would they ever get back to that, after this year?

Super Bowl XLIX.

He licked his lips and shifted from one stiff foot to the other as sweat rolled down his forehead in the humid bathroom suffocating him with thick, wet steam. Julian ran a comb through his hair and wasn't sure if it was water or his own sweat that dripped from the strands and tickled his exposed neck. A white towel sat low on his hips as he stared through the dense fog in the mirror, barely making himself out.

Tom had touched him that night. Long fingers traced the lines on his abdomen; up, starting at the waistband of the dark jeans he'd worn to the party and then down, stopping at the brass button keeping them in place. It was simple and quick the way Tom's expert hands had moved, unzipping and opening his pants and then dipping inside to the place Julian wanted him most. He could almost hear the sound of Tom's strangled breathing in his ear, whispering " _do it,"_ in that urging, breathy voice of his. He could almost feel Tom's hands on his chest, on his waist, on his...

The phone buzzed on the counter and Julian glanced down as it lit up.

 **TOM BRADY [4:14PM]:** Are you busy?

Julian hadn't immediately realized how ragged his breathing had become. His cock pulsed beneath the towel, demanding attention. The adrenaline of his workout and these thoughts, these wicked thoughts, always did him in. Julian closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled several counts. When he opened his eyes again, he glanced to the side, observing the image of himself in the floor-length mirror.

He was hard and his body ached, bone-deep. The steam had begun to dissipate and he was almost entirely visible now in the reflection. Julian let the towel fall away from his ass but held it up, covering his erect cock with one hand. Without thinking, he flipped on the camera to his phone and snapped a photo of himself in the mirror, uploaded it to his conversation with Tom, and sent it before he could stop himself. Julian blinked his eyes clear and stared at the picture, trying to see what Tom would see. Bare chest, toned abs, a slim waist, the curve of his half-exposed ass as he stood sidelong, toned shoulders, the white towel maddeningly covering himself.

On the screen, a flashing ellipsis indicated Tom was typing.

Julian held his breath.

 


	7. Chapter 7

It'd been subtle; this _thing_ between them.

The days, weeks, months leading up to Super Bowl XLIX felt distant now, as though he were grasping fog between his fingers. It slipped away.

A _look_ in Tom's eyes before a game. An insignificant brush of their pinky fingers as they passed the ball during practice. The way their gazes always seemed to find each other on the field, on the sidelines, at practice, at meetings.

There was something _there,_ and that night, after the Super Bowl, in Tom's luxury hotel room, Julian had brought it up.

"You _knew_. You knew that I knew that--"

"Knew what?"

Tom was so _fucking_ nonchalant it killed him. They were not in sync, no matter how hard they tried. This wasn't the football field. The rules were more convoluted, if anyone could believe that. Hands sought hands sought waists, hips, _asses._ Mouths were everywhere, kissing, kissing, sucking, biting, kissing, bumping, kissing. Julian was breathless by the time they'd undressed and fallen back on the bed as one.

One was spent, the other needy. It was a cruel imbalance and Julian ached for too much. Tom ached for not enough. He kept offering pieces of himself in this dangerous idea that had both of them reeling for more. Maybe he'd given Tom too much and maybe he'd given him not enough. A toxic euphoria was brought to light as distant fantasies collided head on with a dangerous reality. This was a fucking _fantasy,_ a fantasy he'd only permitted briefly, and now it was here, happening.

Tom was on him then, capturing Julian's bottom lip between his teeth and moving with vigor as he reached between them, between Julian's legs. There was a moment that Julian's breath clung to his throat as he waited for the delicious sensation of Tom's practiced hand around his cock, but it never came. Instead, Tom was lathering himself up with soft grunts. One hand rested beside Julian's still body as the younger of the pair watched in awe. Tom fucking Brady was above him, naked, his hand wrapped around his throbbing prick. Julian ached from the inside out and his back arched with want. He released the tiniest shudder, but then Tom was grasping Julian's knees and shoving him back so roughly he didn't know what was happening. As Tom's hand wrapped around the base of his own cock to hold it steady, it hit him at once what was happening.

"The fuck you think you're doing?" he slurred, still drunk from a hard night partying.

"What the  _fuck_ does it look like?" Tom snapped. Just like that, the soft then hard then soft kisses they'd shared moments ago diminished into this gruff, controlling version of Tom. Julian struggled, his legs jerking away from Tom's grasp as he messily pushed himself up.

"Fuck no. I'm fucking _you."_

"Like hell you are."

Julian had grabbed Tom's shoulders and yanked him down, struggling to regain control as he forced them to roll; but it was pointless. Tom was bigger, heavier, and he fought back with the strength of an athlete, shoving a drunk Julian down into the mattress.

Why was it always like this? They fought for the role, the prize of being alpha and it was Tom that always won. Tom that Julian _wanted_ to win.

He grunted as his head slammed into the pillow but he wasn't giving up. He struggled, wiggling beneath Tom as he held him down. They smacked each other, flat palms slapping against bare flesh leaving behind bright red marks. 

It was pathetic.

"Fuckin' hate you," Julian spat.

"No you don't."

"Shut the hell up, prick."

At once, Julian jerked beneath him, taking Tom by just enough surprise that he was able to sit up and be closer to his level. Before Tom could shove him back down, Julian grasped his face between two hands and tugged him into a rough kiss. Tom resisted at first, and though he was bigger, heavier, Julian was stronger. Tom jerked back a few times but Julian was on him quickly, devouring his swollen lips with his own, biting kiss. He held him there, kissing him until Tom gave in to return the affection. He would remember the way Tom's tongue tasted for the rest of his life, even if they never kissed again. He was warm and wet, minty but somehow savory at once. It wasn't like anyone else.

Inevitably, they pulled away, and Tom wore a satisfied, conceited smirk on his pretty little face.

"You don't fucking hate me."

"Shut the fuck up."


	8. Chapter 8

Julian's heart was a hammer against his chest and it drove him _insane_ that Tom fucking _Brady_ did this to him. The man who was so _regimented_ and _restrictive_ with his ridiculous goddamn lifestyle that he never allowed a strawberry, a fucking _strawberry,_ to pass between his lips. He was so hyper focused on just one thing, and maybe Julian was no longer a part of that equation.

One season missed and everything, _everything_ was gone.

He wanted to look away from his phone, to not care whether Tom answered him or not. He wanted Tom to be the one seeking _him_ out for once; but he'd make a damn fool of himself if he dared try. His mind wouldn't allow him to stop thinking about it, to stop wondering what would come when the ellipses stopped flashing on his screen.

It was fucking pathetic.

Julian was still sweating. The steam was almost entirely gone now, sucked up in the vents above, but something about standing naked in a bathroom after a hot shower reminded him of hours spent in saunas, sweating out toxins. It didn't help that he was hard and forcing his hand from roaming between his legs to get himself off. It'd be so _easy,_ but he couldn't. Wouldn't. His curiosity over what Tom would fucking _say_ was too heightened to allow any focus elsewhere.

The ellipses disappeared and Julian waited, his eyes glued to the screen in his hand. Five seconds and nothing came. Maybe his service needed time to catch up to whatever message Tom had written. Ten seconds and still nothing. Was he connected to the WiFi? Julian pressed the home button and swiped his thumb across the phone, opened settings, and turned the WiFi off for the count of five, then on, just to see if it needed a reboot. Twenty seconds, and still nothing. He opened up the conversation with Tom again and stared. And stared. And stared.

Sweat dripped off his forehead and splashed on the surface of his screen. Julian wiped it on his towel, creating a smudge of droplets in an arc against the glossy surface. He plucked the towel from his body and soaked up the moisture and finally exited the bathroom nude, not taking his eyes off the phone. Julian set it down on his bed as he dragged the towel across his face and body, absorbing water and sweat, keeping his eyes half on the screen to watch for movement indicating a received text message.

He was fucking pathetic.

Julian stepped into a pair of Versaci briefs that clung to his skin and caused a shudder as fabric pressed firmly against his stiff cock. He couldn't take it. This goddamn _game_ Brady was playing was pissing him off now. They both knew how this worked, but Julian was sick of it. Sick of Tom. He pulled on a soft, cotton tee then fell into bed, laying on his back. It felt cool in here compared to the bathroom, and he'd finally stopped sweating. Julian grabbed his phone and checked the timestamp on the photograph. 4:15. Ten minutes ago. He grit his teeth.

Tom wasn't responding.

Julian turned his phone off, threw it carelessly to the carpeted floor beside his bed, and shoved his hand down his boxers.

If Tom wasn't going to play, then _fuck_ him. He could get off just fine by himself.


	9. Chapter 9

That _horrible_ lurch in his stomach exploded as soon as the blare of his early morning alarm went off.

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

He could have chosen something softer, something easier to wake up to; a Jack Johnson song played just loud enough to ease him from his dreams to a quiet reality.

But that shit didn't _motivate_ him.

Julian wanted to throw up. His hand blindly slammed the off button on his alarm and he got up on the countdown of _3....2....1...._

Like a rocket, he was out of bed at ten past six in the morning. His phone still lay discarded on the floor by his feet from the previous night and as he bent down to pick it up, he felt a wave of regret. Texting Tom that photograph had been fucking _stupid._ Now he had to face him, had to drive to the gym, park his car, get his ass inside and face Tom _fucking_ Brady. Julian inhaled a deep breath and _decided_ that he needed to man up. 

He dressed in practice gear, made a high carbohydrate breakfast to help him power through whatever insane workout Tom devised and whatever practice he'd agreed to with Danny, packed plenty of water with several snacks, and was on the highway in under thirty. It wasn't until he found himself sitting in traffic at an off ramp that he flipped his phone on. The radio sounded distant as his heartbeat jumped to pound against his ears. The screen lit up black with the white Apple logo directly in the center and Julian inched forward as the traffic moved slightly. His stomach had curled in on itself, churning and spinning in time with the beating of his heart. There was a sudden need to throw up, as though doing so might make him feel better.

One of his hands gripped the steering wheel, the other his phone. Finally, the phone loaded and Jules typed in his pass code and waited as the apps caught up to his service. It buzzed, notifying him of new e-mails, of a missed call from his mother, of a text from Danny, and...

 **TOM BRADY [5:45AM]:** See you at the gym, Jules.

Julian's eyes darted to the time. It was just before seven.

 **JULIAN EDELMAN [6:54AM]:** Be there soon. Stuck in traffic.

So they were just going to ignore the invite Tom had extended him the night before? The photograph Julian had sent him in response? Julian shook his head and rolled his eyes beneath the thick, black sunglasses protecting him from UV rays. He tossed the phone on the seat beside him as traffic moved again.

He was fucking pathetic.

It was a little after seven that Julian arrived outside of the gym where he pulled into a front row spot. There were a few other cars there; Tom's, of course. Alex Guerrero, as was usual. A few others that he didn't recognize, but could guess belonged to those that worked at the gym. The highly-paid athletes that used this gym didn't drive Kias and Nissans. What he noticed, though, was Danny's absence. Julian grabbed his things, slinging his sports bag around his shoulder as he locked his car and checked the other updates on his phone.

 **DANNY AMENDOLA [6:20AM]:** Won't be at the gym till 10 or so.   
**JULIAN EDELMAN [7:07AM]:** Oh yeah? Slacking today?

Julian scrolled to his voicemail and pressed the phone to his ear as he slowly meandered towards the gym door, listening to his mother's voice from the message she'd left the previous night.

_"Hey Jules. Jason and I were hoping you'd like to meet for lunch tomorrow. He's in town. Dad's working, but we can stop by the shop, too. Let me know. Love you."_

He clicked the home button, opened his messages, and sent a quick one to his mother. Once he got inside, the phone would be put away until Tom was spent. It didn't matter that he hardly ran, hardly exerted himself quite to the extent that Julian did. He called the shots.

 **JULIAN EDELMAN [7:08AM]:** Hey mom. Don't think I can do lunch today. Maybe dinner, though? I'm meeting Tom for practice now so talk later. Love u. Tell Jason I said hi.

Julian shoved his phone deep in the side pocket of his bag, lifted his sunglasses to rest on his head, and opened the heavy, gym door.

* * *

Maybe it was _stupid_ to think, or _maybe_ it was just because he had never _been_ with a guy before, but that night, in Tom's hotel room, it felt different than just _sex._

"You _bastard_ ," Julian murmured, though the venom that'd previously been in his voice ebbed to something more lazy. There was a small smile in his eyes as Tom took control again. Blood coated his teeth, wet and glistening, and Tom had a cracked, fat lip; but _this time,_ Julian did not resist as Tom's massive hands gripped his knees and pushed them back, up towards his chest. Instead, Julian _smiled._

"Jesus fucking Christ, Jules, shut the fuck up."

Julian released a soft, breathy laugh, which Tom did not return, but he _swore_ he witnessed the _slightest_ glint of a smile in his eyes.

He was inside of him in one, quick, agonizing thrust and Julian cried out, his head arching back and digging into the plush pillow under him. "Fuck!"

It was the strangest sensation. To have Tom inside of him was a kind of magic, not unlike the feelings he had grown accustomed to on the field. A rush, a triumph, a painful pleasure, it was more than just _fucking._ Julian was unsure he'd ever adjust to that sensation of being filled to the goddamn brim with Tom's _need._

He laid there, on his back, his eyes struggling to stay open through the agony as his whole body bobbed up towards the headboard then back down towards Brady's body, over and over and over. Julian relaxed his knees and extended them, wrapping his legs loosely around Tom's waist. His own hips wiggled up towards Tom, meeting him with each thrust. Not once did that subtle smile fall from Julian's lips. 

There was this moment, though, that had come back to him many times since that defining night, where Tom had bent low over him and whispered something through strained lips.

"You're _mine_ now, Jules."

Julian did not disagree. Instead, his hands grasped Tom's narrow, sharp face and met him halfway, lifting his exhausted body off the bed to kiss his lips.

" _Prove it."_

 


	10. Chapter 10

**DANNY AMENDOLA [8:10AM]:** Something like that.

Julian's eyes were half on Tom, half on the illuminated screen of his phone. In one hand, he held a massive bottle of water, which he squeezed into his mouth to hydrate himself and in the other, Jules clutched his phone. Their breaks lasted just a few minutes, enough time to chug twenty, thirty ounces of water and maybe inhale a snack.

Tom wore no shirt, but he had oversized shoulder pads covering part of the top half of his body. His helmet was on the bench beside him as he stood tall and straight, his lanky frame appearing elongated as one hip dropped to the side. Julian stole glances as beads of sweat rolled over Tom's chest and stomach, curling down below his belly button.

Today's practice was typical for a one on one with Tom Brady and there'd been absolutely _no_ mention of Julian's texts, for which he was grateful. Instead, he focused on running plays, cardio, resistance bands, pliability; it all helped Julian become the athlete he was. Now, he stood on the sideline in a pair of black, jersey shorts, cleats, and socks bunched up around his ankles.

 **JULIAN EDELMAN [9:18AM]:** Everything good?   
**DANNY AMENDOLA [9:18AM]:** Yeah, we gotta talk, man. I'll be there soon.

Julian's crystal blue eyes were stuck on the screen, working out what _gotta talk_ could mean.

He already had an idea, but there wasn't time to consider.

"Ready?" Tom inclined his head, squirting water between parted lips one more time before setting his bottle down on the bench. Julian nodded. "Thinking we need to work on these distance routes. It was a weak spot this past season, don't want that to be the reason we go down this year. You're back, and I'm going to need you to do your fucking best."

"Always do."

Tom nodded vaguely then shoved his helmet over his head and Julian mimicked the action. One hand rested against his bare shoulder, the fingers on Tom's left hand circling around Julian's muscles and for the briefest flash of a moment, he recalled the texts carelessly sent the night before. Julian's cheeks bloomed with heat and Tom's hand dropped away quickly.

The quarter back gave instructions on a play route and they were off.

Julian's calves ached in that familiar way that they did whenever he ran as hard as he could, feet digging into false turf, _sprinting, sprinting, sprinting. Catching. Throwing. Jumping. Running. Sprinting. Leaping. Diving. Jogging. Sprinting. Tripping. Jumping. Sprinting._

All he could hear was his own breathing, his own heartbeat as sweat cascaded over his brow beneath the stifling helmet.

Julian didn't notice when the door opened and then slammed. 

* * *

Maybe he'd been too much of a Tommy's boy to notice that he was pushing himself too hard. Maybe if he hadn't been so fucking _competitive_ things would have been different. Maybe if he'd been more careful. Maybe if he'd preserved himself for the regular season. 

Too many _what if_ scenarios had lead him here, two weeks after the regular season kickoff. The first game loss had been tough to watch because Julian knew there had been some plays left on the field, plays he could have executed, plays he _would_ have executed. His leg had quickly become a thing to loathe.

And that was probably how he'd wound up in Providence that strange night, late in the evening. He relied heavily on a cane as he stood on Danny's doorstep wondering how desperate he could have been to show up here, now.

"Jules." Danny's eyes were hooded with sleep, his voice low and gravelly. He wore just a pair of boxers and an open, unzipped hooded jacket that he must have thrown on before opening the door. The only people that rang doorbells after midnight were the police with bad news or pranksters that looked up the Wide Receiver's address, longing to catch a glimpse of New England's new _It Boy._

"Hey."

He didn't even wait for the door to close fully behind him before he was on Danny. Julian dropped his cane at the door and rose his hands to cup Danny's face between them, dragging him against himself instead of meeting him halfway, giving Danny a choice to resist.

He didn't.

Their mouths were hungry and warm as they met in a devouring kiss that was anything but gentle. Danny walked backwards, slowly, and Julian advanced after him, limping. Their lips did not break contact as they shuffled together across the living space. A soft _slam_ echoed and Danny grunted, then laughed into Julian's mouth and sidestepped the coffee table he'd bumped into. The backs of his legs hit the couch and he sat down with a _thump_ and looked up at Julian, red in the face with swollen lips and a swollen cock beneath threadbare boxers.

Julian shrugged out of his pea coat, toed out of his shoes, and was heavy at work on removing fitted jeans when Danny batted his hands away to do it himself. He let him, saying nothing. Danny's fingers were quick, though they trembled just enough for Julian to notice. He cocked his brows, watching as fingers latched into the waistband then tugged off jeans and briefs at once. They fell, crumbled up, to his ankles, and Julian huffed. Favoring his bad leg, Julian bent over and worked Danny out of his boxers and then fell atop him.

There was no game here. They both knew what was going to happen and neither resisted.

When Julian sank into Danny, he cried out. When Danny felt the full length of Julian inside of him, hot and slippery from spit, he grit his teeth and grunted.

It was simple with Danny.

It always had been, always would be.

* * *

Julian sat on the bench with his legs straight out in front of him, stretching his hamstrings.  He squinted up at Danny, who stood above him, beside Tom. 

"Did you tell Bill?" Tom asked.

"Not officially. He knows, I'm sure. Wanted you two to know first, from me."

"More in two years than five with the Pats," Tom mused, shaking his head with a soft scoff. It pissed them all off, honestly, that they'd take pay cut after pay cut regardless of improvement and team value then be offered more from a team far less likely to win games. It was just _the way_ in New England, they all knew. Bill and Kraft wanted people who _wanted_ to be there; and they _did,_ they fucking _did_ want to be there. But it didn't dull the sting when the art of the business won their best players every fucking off season.

Danny shrugged, squinting as he forced a breathy laugh. He hated this, Julian could tell. Julian hated it, too.

"The fuck man," Julian finally managed. He got up and threw his arms around Danny in a tight embrace. "This sucks."

Danny rose his hands, fingers clenching behind Julian's back as he stood there, stiff, allowing Julian to hug him for however long he needed. He couldn't respond, couldn't give in to the emotion rising inside of him as he faced his two favorite teammates. The boys who'd become brothers. When Julian released him, Danny felt an emptiness he hadn't known in a long time. He released a tight sigh through strained lips and Tom pressed a firm hand to his shoulder.

"Guess you're the enemy now," Tom joked, lightening the mood just the slightest bit, but they all knew there was truth to his words. In just a few short months, they'd be staring Danny down from opposite sides of the field. Julian didn't want to think about that. His throat was already tight enough.

"Guess so," Danny managed a laugh. "Well, just-- just thought I'd let you know. I gotta make some calls. But- uh. I'll see you guys around, yeah?"

Julian nodded tightly. He couldn't bring himself to respond. It was Tom that was the strong one here; he'd seen so many come and go over his nearly eighteen years in the league.

"Yeah, of course. You're my brother, man." Danny nodded, sucking in a deep breath. There was a tense moment just then as the three stood, still and silent. No one knew where to look, and Julian's gaze fixed somewhere near Danny's right foot. 

"Well, I'll see you."

"Good luck, man."

"Yeah, good luck."

"Thanks."

They watched him leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey! My apologies for the break in chapters. I've been working like crazy on my novel, which I'm hoping to complete and start the process of publishing within a few months! (Not football related, sadly, though wouldn't that be great haha). I've come down with a god awful cold and am emotional as hell about the trades, though, and needed to write this to cope. I will do my best to write some more.
> 
> Sooo sad to lose Danny. So fucking sad. I honestly didn't think we would, but it is a business. He deserves more money. :( Also so devastated about Butler and Lewis! Why we gotta lose all the good ones? And Solder, too!   
> At least we have Jules and Tom still, right? <3
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading and sticking with me despite my slowness. Youre the best!


	11. Chapter 11

Julian collapsed into bed that night, spent physically, wrecked emotionally.

News broke of Danny's trade. Then the alerts rolled in; first from his teammates, then officially from the NFL. Dion. Malcolm. Nate. It was a lot, but it was also nothing. One year off, one year without playing with these guys, and most of them felt almost like strangers.

It was a part of the business, he reminded himself.

Soon, he'd be a free agent himself, or retiring before a trade was possible. Soon, Tom would retire. Soon, Bill would be gone.

Soon. _Soon_. _**Soon**_.

Julian tugged his blanket up over his shoulders and laid perfectly still, flat on his back. He stared at the dark ceiling, eyes catching the vague light seeping into the spaces between his blinds from the moon and stars and streetlights.

His mind was a fucking montage of memories and he couldn't stop it.

The sleeping pills, the swig of straight bourbon, the hour and a half of video games, the thirty minutes of porn; nothing fucking helped. This wasn't _okay_. He wasn't _okay._

Shit, maybe he'd been stupid coming here. Maybe he'd been fucking dumb thinking his return would send him back on the path to normalcy. He'd be back in action as Tom's go-to wide receive. Danny would be there to practice, to encourage. Things would be good again.

But he'd already fucked up with Tom.

Danny was gone.

The team was different in ways that it hadn't been different in all the years he'd been a Patriot. Yeah, it was ever-changing. Evolving. Becoming new each year with drafts and trades; but this year left a bitter taste in his mouth.

A vibration buzzed against his bedside table. Jules eyes narrowed at the time.

Past midnight. He knew it'd be Danny before he even grabbed his phone, and he hardly glanced at the bright screen as he blindly unlocked it, sliding it open to answer.

"Hey."

"Hey, Jules."

But it wasn't Danny's voice on the other end.

"Tom. Hey. What's up?" he asked, sitting up, rubbing his eyes and feeling somehow self-conscious.

"Nothing. You busy?"

"Uh, no. Just laying in bed."

"Cool. Come over?"

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Uh. Uh, yeah. Okay."

"Alright. I'll see you soon."

"See you."

Julian hung up, his eyes wide and reflecting the glow of the phone.


	12. Chapter 12

Brady locked the door.

Julian pivoted just in time to see long, deft fingers turning the lock into place, barricading him in the tight room with Tom Brady. It felt unnecessary; no one else was here. Not Gisele or the kids, who were out of town, not the cleaners or Alex, no one. It was the middle of the night, and yet Tom felt the need to _lock_ the door behind him.

"Sit." Tom nodded absently, his expression somehow dark, serious as he gestured with a quick incline of his head towards a small swivel chair in front of an extravagant computer setup. Tom fell into another swivel chair, this one bigger, more cushioned, perfectly designed for _hours_ of staring at and rewinding and examining and fast forwarding and re-watching footage. Tom was a man obsessed, and when Julian glanced between the open seat and Tom, he almost backed out of the room and left.

_Disappointed._

Who the hell called someone in the middle of the night to come over and stare at a fucking computer?

But, in a split second, as his eyes darted from the computer to the locked door. The _locked_ door. Julian sat.

"What's up?"

"You gotta watch this," Tom said. He picked up a small remote and pressed play. Julian leaned forward and it took him several counts to recognize what he was seeing.

It was a Patriots practice; one of the earliest ones in his own NFL career. He watched as his Rookie self dug his cleats into false turf and faked left, then right, and went straight up the middle for a long catch. Tom pumped his fist, just once. It was almost imperceptible, _almost._ But Julian noticed because it was so unlike Tom to celebrate the victories at practice. If he got it right, they just moved onto the next without word. If he got it wrong, he'd get his ass handed to him.

The tape moved forward and Julian watched silently. Mostly, he felt a horrific crawling sensation in the pit of his stomach that wormed outwards, through constricted veins. Crawling, crawling, _creeping_ through his body, he was pissed.

Tom called him here, in the middle of the goddamn night, to watch ridiculous _footage_ of an early practice. He didn't even remember them _filming_ this practice, but that was beside the point. He wanted to leave, swallow another sleeping pill, and pass the fuck out.

"Why the--"

"Shhh." Tom smacked his arm and pointed at the screen. Julian's eyes turned back to the computer and watched as he, Danny, and Tom perfectly executed a trick play that they would later grow the balls to try in an actual game; the play where Julian showed off his own, trained quarterback skills and threw for a perfect touchdown.

"Okay?"

Tom stared ahead, and Julian watched his profile as his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, stretching taut skin. "Knew you were going to be my guy then," Tom said. Julian's expression didn't change, but there was a slight uptick in his heartbeat. "You can't leave, man."

"Why the fuck would I leave now, man?"

"Next year," Tom said, his eyes still on the screen as it moved on to one of the earliest games of Julian's NFL career. He paid it no attention, even as the illuminated colors flashed and changed. He just kept his eyes on Tom. "I'm not going anywhere till I'm fucking up, till I'm ruining the team, and you'd better stay, too. With me, man, in it till the end."

"Planning on it."

But they both knew that sometimes, it wasn't that easy. Danny had taken cut after cut then was essentially forced into the arms of another team. The same goddamn thing could happen to him, too. Julian squinted one eye and turned away, started to get up, to leave. He was bored, tired of Tom's stupid games.

"Sit."

"Why, man? So we can watch these videos all night? Gotta get sleep so we can practice tomorrow."

And then, there was not a single breadth of warning as Tom's hand gripped his wrist and forced him back into his seat. Julian struggled, yanking away, but Tom only gripped him again, pinning him there.

"You remember the night after 51?" Tom asked, his mouth somehow mere inches from Julian's - _how did it fucking get there?_   Julian's eyes went wide and he nodded, just once.

Tom smirked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY THERE! I've been in a writing slump on and off, but here's the next chapter! Thank you for reading, if you've stuck around. :) I've been thinking about this fic and where it's going, so I'm going to be playing around with the next chapters! <3 You guys are the best!


	13. Chapter 13

"What are you gonna do?" Julian asked. There was not a trace of anything in his voice - no wanting, no curiosity, no annoyance. It was purposely neutral, like he had complete control over everything.

He knew he didn't.

And he could still taste Danny on his lips. 

Tom didn't answer and Jules could tell it was in a way done purposely, but not evasively. The stupid fucking smirk still lingered on Tom's lips, making him look fifteen years younger. Julian was the first to move, to react, his brows rising in question before he could stop himself. 

Julian's back slammed against the door in one fluid motion that knocked the breath right out've him. Hands, hands grasped the front of his shirt and squeezed the fabric in a balled fist before knocking him back  _again_ and then once more and Julian made an animalistic grunt as lips captured his own. Tom was on him, all over him. He was thinner, somehow, but taller, much taller, and Julian made the most pathetic of attempts to get free, twisting and turning his head. Tom wouldn't budge, his body still pinning him  _just there,_ between the hard wood of the door and his warm body. But Julian didn't  _really_ want to get away and Tom knew that. They _both_ knew that. So he didn't. He stayed there, right where he belonged, under Tom.

Lips smashed into his own as hips collided and Julian fucking _melted_. It was impossible to tell what was happening except bodies on bodies on lips and teeth and tongues and hands. HANDS. _Everywhere_!

Julian couldn't  _breathe._

Tom's hand had somehow _impossibly_ made its way between their crushed bodies and was fumbling with his button and zipper and--

\--"Christ," Julian gasped as he finally managed to jerk away. "Get off."

"Trying..."

He shoved Tom back a few steps and got a good look at him. Face flushed red, hair a tangled mess, eyes hooded, and between his legs... 

Julian licked and chewed down on his bottom lip before advancing. If he thought he could walk away from this, he was kidding himself. There was no fucking way. No fucking way when Tom looked like  _that_ and his voice was all warm and soft and  _husky._ His own hands made hasty work of yanking down his jeans and briefs at once, allowing them to crumble to the floor in a pile that he quickly stepped out of. Tom's smile returned as their bodies met and he tore Julian's shirt right off over his head like they'd done this a million times.

"That's my guy," he mumbled. 

"Shut up."

At once and in a movement so fluid it came and went in a blurry haze, Julian was bent at the waist, stomach and face smashed across the squashy chair Tom used when he _obsessively_ studied footage. It was surprising that he could even  _think_ of that now. The quarterback up in that room, sitting there, eyes glued to the screen as he fast forwarded and rewinded the same 15 second clip over and over and over. 

God, he wanted him.

"Fucking _do_ it."

Tom was inside of him in one, quick thrust.

"Shit!"

Julian grunted and then moaned. It _ached_ in a way he could feel in his entire body but  _god,_ he missed this. Tom was absolutely  _buried,_ his whole cock inside of him right to the base. He had no idea how he had enough  _room_ for him, but he could feel it in his whole fucking body. It didn't even feel  _good,_ not yet, but there was something undeniably thrilling about this. About having Tom fill him right up. 

He hadn't realized how badly he needed this. 

Again, Tom's movements were quick and sure. He brought his hips back and Jules realized then that he'd gone in nearly dry; just a little bit of spit, it seemed, was  _barely_ enough to help him slide back out. 

"God  _dammit,_ Tom."

But then he thrusted forward again so fast that Julian didn't have time to complain through his shout. 

"Fuck." This time, it was Tom gasping profanities. "So tight."

A smirk stretched across Julian's lips. He rocked back just slightly, teasingly, his body  _begging_ Tom to keep going.

To fuck him relentlessly. 

When it was done, Julian flopped over, motionless, on the chair. His entire being throbbed in the best way and he knew he would feel Tom inside of him for days. As he sat there nude, Tom tugged on his own sweats. Julian could tell he was avoiding his eyes but Julian didn't look away. He just kept on staring, kept on watching him without averting his gaze.

"That why you really call me over here? Not just to watch old footage?" Julian asked, voice low and raspy, a hint of conceit in his tone.

Tom looked at him then, his glare almost biting. Julian laughed.

"What?"

"You're so serious, man. Gotta lighten up," Julian said. 

Tom tugged a t-shirt on over his pasty chest and shook his head subtly.

"You can see yourself out."

Julian cocked his brows and shifted to sit up, flinching from the pain, but Tom had opened the door, stepped through, and closed it behind him. 

Another, quick, breathy laugh escaped Jules. "Christ."


	14. Chapter 14

The air in the locker room could be cut like a knife.

Months had passed in the blink of an eye. A lost Super Bowl. A pending suspension that he swore he was going to appeal but god knew that if Goodell had any say, he might as well start digging his grave now. The pre-season was upon them so suddenly that Julian wasn't sure what the fuck had  _happened._ He'd lost track of time in California, in finishing up his recovery, in  _Tom._

"Suspended for suspected use of PEDs."

Julian flinched. Gronk's massive hand wrapped around his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. There was a collective sigh. His teammates were disappointed and Julian had to bite his tongue. He'd already been caught going off in front of coach, in front of Kraft. How  _dare_ they not believe him - but anger was a side effect of 'roids. He had to reel it in. They ought to fucking  _know_ he was always fucking _angry_. 

Losing his temper wasn't going to get him anywhere. 

"We're going to focus on the pre-season. Jules, you're still in for now," Bill said in typical Bill-fashion. They'd move on, find a way, conquer the pre-season, do just fine for the first four games. "Let's get to work."

It was like no one cared how lonely it could be to come off an injury only to be thrown our of reach again. He was  _pissed,_ but it was what it was. 

He'd win the appeal.

Had to.

Jules could feel the cameras trained on him as they rushed out onto the field, a mid-summer's sun beating down on the back of his head. He tugged his helmet on. Maybe they wouldn't see the expression of disdain and pure bitterness written all over his face. 

_"You gotta ignore the noise, man."_

The night he'd learned of his suspension, he went to Tom. It broke quickly through ESPN, local news stations and the papers. 

_"Fuck you, what do you know about this?"_

_Tom fixed him with a look that told him everything - a subtle hint of amusement on thin lips. Julian only had to think back on the witch hunt Brady faced time and time again to realize he definitely knew a lot about this. Still, an accusation of using a performance enhancement when he'd just been through countless treatments of all sorts of shots and medications that had his head swimming as his body healed was just the fucking ice on the cake and **that,** Tom didn't know about._

_"Just ignore the goddamn noise, Julian. You'll be back before you know it. Right on time for when the season really starts taking shape. Just show 'em what you got in the pre. You'll be fine."_

_Tom's hand landed on his shoulder and Julian shrugged it off instantly. He didn't feel like being_ **_touched_ ** _right now, the fucking bastard. "Don't."_

_"You gotta control that rage inside you, Julian."_

_He heaved a sigh, biting back the urge to bite back. Everyone knew Tom Brady was the Jedi fucking Master. Kept his expression controlled even in the most stressful situations. Didn't show his anger unless it was warranted. Didn't let the noise get under his skin._

_Too fucking bad Julian **wasn't** Tom._

The ball propelled towards him in a perfect arc and Julian leapt up to make the catch. His eyes remained focused on the spinning ball and it hit his open hands. Hit them, then bounced out before he could make the grasp. The ball fell lifelessly to the ground.

"The hell was that? You should've had that!" Tom shouted across the field, annoyance clear in his voice. 

Julian picked up the ball and hurled it back. "Again!"

This time as Julian began running, the quarter back didn't target him. The ball whirled through the air, bypassing his outstretched hands and landed in Hogan's harms, just like a goddamn baby.

"The fuck, man?" Julian was in Hogan's face in an instant and the other wide receiver held up his free hand in surrender.

"Cool it."

_"You just gotta play it cool."_

_With one, firm shove Julian's two hands connected with Tom's shoulders in a brutal shove. He watched as the other fell back on the couch, and a stupid goddamn smirk spread over Tom's fucking lips._

_"Fuck you, man."_

_"Jules, stop. Come here."_

_"No, fuck you."_

_Tom laughed breathlessly and Julian couldn't help himself. He rose a fisted hand, allowing it to swing directly towards Tom's jaw. A single moment of pause and he managed to stop it from connecting with the other's face with barely a centimeter to spare._

_Tom didn't even flinch._

_Julian exhaled a withheld breath and fell on the couch, breathless._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sure why Julian is so goddamn angsty. IM SORRY!


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